Close Call
by Lawless67
Summary: Sam rode shotgun, holding his guts in with a shop rag Dean used for the Impala's tune-ups. Anxious!Dean Hurt!Sam


Author's Note: So this is my first fanfic *gulps nervously* I welcome reviews and constructive criticism, but please be gentle. Anyway, I hope you enjoy!

Disclaimer: I don't own any of the characters, this is just for fun, not profit.

**Close Call**

_Now_

Dr. Andy McCullough watched the two young men—boys really—from just outside the door, hesitant to intrude on the obvious intimacy of the scene.

The younger of the men—Sam, he recalled—was settled quietly under the bland colored covers of the hospital bed, limbs tucked in neatly so that no extremities hung over the rails. His young face—all sharp cheekbones and ski-slope nose and long lashes—was turned towards his brother, mouth open slightly, breathing even and slow. As McCullough watched, a crease formed between the boy's eyebrows and a low whine of distress was heard from his throat. Before McCullough could step into the room to check if his patient required a higher dose of pain medication, before the whine sounded or the crease even fully formed, the brother shifted slightly. The older man, Dean, lifted the hand that had been covering his younger brother's fingers, moving it to brush at the dark, slightly too long hair that hung over his sibling's eyes before smoothing a rough thumb across the small crease, ironing away his brother's discomfort. At the touch, Sam's entire body seemed to relax, melting, boneless, against the bed, and McCullough knew that the discomfort hadn't been physical, but rather the fear of being out of close proximity to his brother.

The doctor shook his head at the calmness even high-strength painkillers hadn't been able to provide. In his thirteen years of medical experience, he'd never seen anything like it, the _awareness_ of each other these boys had. He'd be willingly to lay money that even in a crowd of people, he could still connect these two, an invisible string that tied one soul to another. It was in the way they moved, planets orbiting, gravitating, to each other. Hell, it was in the way they breathed, one automatically syncing his very breath to his brother's.

McCullough was relieved that both brothers were now somewhat calmed, though he knew the older wouldn't completely relax until Sam had at least opened his eyes. Still, it was a far cry from the boys' chaotic entrance to Jefferson Memorial Hospital several hours ago.

_Earlier_

The Jefferson Memorial emergency room had seen a wide variety of injury types and severities. Set in an older area of a large city, the weathered hospital regularly saw anything from minor kitchen-oriented burns to children's scrapes and fevers to gang-related gunshot wounds. Old Mrs. Polanski from two blocks over came in every Tuesday at noon because she "just knew something went kaput." A young man the nurses knew only by the name Joaquin and the tattered bandana and gang tattoos he wore had walked in more than once, sporting multiple bullet holes and calmly waited for assistance. Eight-year-old Dawson Meeks was seen every two months, it seemed, and left each time sporting a new brightly colored cast on a different part of his anatomy, a grape sucker in his right cheek. Dr. McCullough thought he had seen it all in his nearly fifteen years of experience.

Then again, he hadn't met the Winchesters.

They entered through the sliding glass doors, not in a flurry of panicked movement that usually accompanied the amount of blood saturating their clothes, but purposefully. Not calmly—McCullough could see the frantic fear packed tightly into the older kid's stiff, jerky posture—but without the fluttering and terrified yelling that often wasted so much precious time of the patient's life. The older man—he still must've been several years shy of thirty—had the younger, a lanky, skinny giant, cradled in his arms. The younger was limp in his brother's arms, head tilted against his brother's neck, dark hair flopping over eyes clenched shut in pain. He had a towel pressed tightly to his bloody abdomen with one white-knuckled hand and seemed to be mumbling something under his breath.

The elder made a beeline for the receptionist's desk. The nurse, used to the chaos, barely stopped typing. She—what was her name? Gail maybe—held out a clipboard and recited, "Fill these out, bring 'em back. We'll get you in as quickly as we can."

"No." the elder's voice was a deep, authoritative baritone. Gail the nurse glanced up from her document, fingers stilling on the keyboard. Icy green eyes bored into hers, burning with an anger and fear she could not even begin to fathom.

"What you're going to do, lady, is get a damn gurney out here for my brother. You're going to patch him up, and clean him up, and you're going to let me see him. If I'm satisfied, then I might consider filling out your damn forms. You are not going to sit here ignoring me while he's bleeding out all over your chair. Do I make myself clear?" His voice had steadily risen, not to a shout, but a commanding bark of orders.

Gail, eyes wide, nodded mutely then summoned a stretcher. McCullough gave up trying to find a certain file in the cabinets and strode over.

"What seems to be the problem, gentlemen?" he asked, brisk, professional.

The elder brother was in the midst of settling the younger on the gurney provided with due speed. McCullough watched the younger's eyes open for the first time as his brother attempted to gently untangle his fingers from the death grip they had on his older brother's shirt. The younger made a small, pained sound and clutched his brother tighter.

"Shh, Sammy, it's okay," the elder soothed, detaching the fingers from his shirt, but keeping hold of the hand. "Hey, I gotcha, I gotcha. Everthing's gonna be fine, huh?"

As the older brother calmed the younger, McCullough got his first good look at them both. The elder was tall, built on sturdy, muscular lines, hair a dark blonde and eyes that piercing, angry green. He wore ripped jeans, a leather jacket, and a faded t-shirt covered in his brother's blood, but seemed to be mostly unharmed. A darkening bruise formed on one sharp cheekbone and his eyes, his drawn mouth, his whole body was wholly focused on his brother. The younger barely fit the gurney, even curled in pain like he was. His body, though, still held the wiry, ropier musculature of youth, and when McCullough looked at his face, he saw he couldn't have been more than twenty-two or so. The dark hair still flopped over a sweaty forehead creased in pain, and the murky, hazel-brown eyes tried without much success to track his brother's movements. McCullough let his gaze wander to the kid's stomach and inhaled sharply at what he saw. The kid's shirt was torn to ribbons, saturated with bright red blood, and the flesh beneath was likely shredded. He'd rarely seen injuries consistent with an animal attack, but that was what this looked like.

The doctor grabbed the towel the kid had abandoned in favor of his brother's shirt and pressed it once again to the wounds. The kid made a quick, sharp cry of pain, and the older brother's eyes were leveled with alarming speed and lethality at the man he perceived as a threat. McCullough met the brother's eyes, but didn't let up the pressure on the wounds.

"Relax, okay? I'm a doctor. I want to help." The threat partially left the brother's eyes, but the fear remained. "What's his name?" McCullough asked quickly.

"Sam," was the hoarse reply. "We were camping outside the city. Cougar."

"Okay. Okay." _God, he's so young, just a baby. _McCullough took a deep breath._ Get it together, doc. _"Alright. Hey, Sam, I'm Dr. McCullough, okay? We're going to do everything we can to help you, but I need you to try to relax."

Sam's eyes tracked back and forth between the doctor and his brother. His lips still moved, but no sound came out. The doctor leaned down, trying to catch the words.

"D'n, D'n," the kid repeated.

The brother's breath hitched, and he smoothed a hand over the kid's hair. "Yeah, kiddo, I'm here. I'm staying right here." He met McCullough's eyes across the gurney. They had started rolling down a long hallway. "I'm Dean. Winchester." he said, by way of explanation.

"Well, Mr. Winchester, your brother's going to need surgery, immediately. You can walk with us while we prep him, but I'll need you to wait outside, maybe fill out those forms," the doctor said, grimacing almost apologetically.

Dean's eyes hardened fractionally, but one look at Sam's white, bloodless face had him both nodding tersely and clutching his brother's red-stained hand even tighter. Nurses and orderlies strode around them, calling out terms Dean barely registered. McCullough stopped the stretcher outside doors a sign designated as the OR.

The doctor checked Sam's abdomen briefly, then said something quietly to one of the nurses rushing past. "Alright, Sam, this is where you and Dean part ways for just a while." He smiled, though his eyes were serious. "We'll patch you up and get you back to your brother as soon as possible, how about that." The doctor nodded at Dean and moved back to give the siblings a moment.

Dean bent over at the waist, hand still on Sam's forehead as the doctor moved away.

"Hey, Sammy. You're gonna be okay. You're gonna be fine, huh? Doc's gonna fix you up, good as new, and I'll be right there when you wake up, okay?" Sam's eyes sought his, struggling to focus through blood loss and pain, and he blinked in acknowledgement.

"'K, D'n," the kid mumbled, eyes closing once more.

Dean huffed a shaky half-laugh, full of frustration and helplessness and all-consuming worry, and leaned his temple against his brother's for a brief second before pulling away.

McCullough moved in again and the older brother caught his arm in a bone-crushing grip. The green eyes were back on his, almost feral in their ferocity. The doctor swallowed, afraid to even move his arm to ease the discomfort.

"You take care of him." The man's hand tightened impossibly for a split second, then loosened, falling back to his side like he didn't now what to do with it now that he wasn't in physical contact with his brother.

McCullough's breath whooshed out, and he strode once more to his patient's side as the gurney was wheeled through the doors. He glanced back once more before turning his full attention to his patient, and found Dean where he'd left him—facing the place where he'd last seen Sam.

_Later_

McCullough had taken no more than a step into the waiting room before Dean Winchester shot upright out of one of the not-quite-comfortable blue chairs. The intensity of those eyes once more fell on the doctor, but the man seemed unable to get the words out.

McCullough smiled, exhaustion and relief written plain on his face.

"He came through great, better than I expected."

The tension seemed to desert Dean's body all at once, leaving his knees weak and wobbly. He scrubbed his hands over his face, and the smile that now adorned his face made his earlier one pale in comparison. It transformed his face, dropping lines and years of worry from the angled features, and the doctor was struck once again by how young these boys really were. _At that age I was struggling to write my midterms through a hangover._

"There were a couple of small internal bleeds, but we patched them up, and the gashes should heal without too much scarring." McCullough held up a hand. "Now I don't want him up dancing a jig just yet. It was a little touch and go there for a while, and Sam's still got a long recovery ahead of him, but I'd say he's very lucky. Just needs rest and care now."

Dean's smile had now widened into an all out grin. "Got it, doc. Ain't nothing I'm better at than taking care of that kid. Can I see him?" The words nearly stumbled over each other in Dean's hurry to get them out.

"I thought you might want to," the doctor replied drily, motioning him to follow down the hallway.

_Now_

Dean leaned close to his brother, tugging the blanket higher up Sam's torso, careful to keep pressure off the bandages he knew lay under the thin hospital gown. He brushed once more at the hair his baby brother kept ridiculously long. One of the nurses had finger-combed it severely to the side like Sam hated, so Dean had rearranged the thick brown hair like his brother usually wore it, though he made sure Sam's eyes were in clear sight in case they happened to open. The doctor said he could wake up any time now.

One of Sam's big hands lay under the sheet, while the other rested in Dean's. Not because he needed to hold Sam's hand. He wasn't a chick. The room was chilly, and Sam's immune system probably wasn't at its best after being mauled by a wendigo. He could use a little help keeping his extremities warm, that was all. Besides, Sam was such a girl he probably wouldn't even mind.

Jesus, this one had been close. It made Dean sick and dizzy to think how close his little brother had been to bleeding out in the Impala's passenger seat. And Sam, the stupid idiot, had insisted it wasn't that bad through the whole frantic, twenty-five-over-the-speed-limit drive to the hospital, all the while holding his guts in with a shop rag Dean used for the Impala's tune-ups.

Dean bent his head briefly, forehead to the back of Sam's slightly cold hand, not sure if he was praying or wishing or just shouting to the whole damn universe. The gratitude for his brother's life filled him up, leaving no room for separate thoughts or even words to form into a prayer of thanks.

"Holding…my hand…" Dean jerked upright at the hoarse murmur. "Such…a girl." Sam's eyes were half-open, exhausted, but his lips quirked slightly, trying to smile.

Dean's laugh was slightly hysterical, relief making his head spin. "Who're you calling the girl, Sammy? I seem to recall carrying you into this establishment bridal style." He knew his grin looked a little manic, but _God, _it was good to see his brother's eyes open.

Sam swallowed thickly, and Dean reached for the water cup, pressing the call button for good measure.

"Here, take it slow." He held the straw to Sam's chapped lips.

A nurse appeared in the doorway, entering to check Sam's equipment. "How are you feeling, sir?"

"Peachy," he mumbled as Dean replaced the cup on the table. "When can I get out of here?"

Dean snorted. "Hold up, there, tiger. A few hours ago you looked like a piñata after the five-year-old's birthday. You're not going anywhere for a while." The nurse smiled sympathetically in agreement and retreated from the room.

As soon as she left, Sam turned his gaze to his brother. "Dean, we can't stick around that long. They'll pinch us for insurance fraud for sure."

"Actually, genius, they won't. I used our real names on this one. We got enough cash to stay out of jail."

Sam looked both confused and drained at once. "Why? We need that money, Dean, save it for something important."

"More important than your life? Sure." Dean huffed a self-deprecating laugh. "I screwed up. Told the doctor our real names before I even knew they were outta my mouth. Guess seeing your guts up close and personal flusters me." He shrugged, but his eyes didn't quite meet Sam's.

Sam, not having the energy for a look-at-me battle with Dean, used the last two fingers of his left hand to snag the last two on Dean's right. Dean's gaze shot back to his.

"'S okay, Dean, not your fault. You were worried."

Sam expected his brother to brush it off, maybe call him a girl again, but Dean's eyes only held his, filled with devastation by what had almost happened, what he had almost lost, and Sam knew this one was going to stick around for a while.

"'M okay, D'n," he mumbled.

Some of the weight seemed to leave the green, or perhaps it was only shared now between the green and the hazel, the load resettled to rest on two pairs of shoulders instead of just one.

"Okay," Dean whispered, mostly to his and Sam's joined fingers, but he didn't untangle the joined digits. When he glances back at his brother, he found Sam blinking rapidly, trying desperately to stay awake. He smiled.

"Gave you some of the good stuff, huh, little brother?" He moved to sit hip-to-hip, facing his brother, careful not to jostle him. His free hand smoothed Sam's hair again, thumb rubbing gently back and forth across his temple. A thousand memories flooded his mind, doing this exact same thing whenever Sam was sick or scared or hurt, Sam at age four and eight and fifteen.

"It's okay, Sammy, go to sleep."

Sam sighed, leaning against Dean's hand in a way that destroyed him. God, he loved this kid.

In the way Sam had since he was hardly old enough to speak, he mumbled a barely coherent, "'Night, D'n," and drifted off to sleep under the watchful guard of his big brother.


End file.
